“Thanks for the assurance,” he said, “only this isn’t a circus and your legs are wooden. They’re wooden because you’ve no brains in them and till you have brains in your toes you’re no use to me. You’ve got an accent that’s as thick as pea-soup and till you’ve cleared it, it’ll stay hidden in the chorus. If you’ll work, I’ll teach you to act but, by the Lord, you’ve work ahead of you. If I take trouble and you don’t work, I’ll flay you alive. Is that understood? Very well. There’s a matinee to-day. You come in and see the show this afternoon and you see it again to-night. You’ll be sitting where I can see you and if I catch you laughing, I’ll eat you. Leave laughing to the audience; it’s their job. You’re there to learn. Watch what the other girls do and when they do it. They’ll love you because I’m calling a chorus rehearsal for you to-morrow. Make mistakes then if you dare. You’ll play to-morrow night. See the wardrobe mistress between the shows to-day about your clothes. I’m paid to make you a chorus girl; you’ll be in the chorus tomorrow night. Then I begin to have my fun with you. I begin to make your name something else than an impertinence. I get busy on you, my girl. You’re clay and I’m the potter. Meantime, we’ll go to the door and I’ll tell the first girl who comes for her letters to show you where you’re likely to find rooms and you can ask her why Hugh Darley proposes to spend four hours a day breaking in a chorus girl.” Mary asked the other girl, who looked curiously at her. “I never knew Darley to make love before,” she said. “Love!” said Mary, blinking startled eyes as if a flashlight had blazed at her out of darkness. “Well,” said her cynical friend, “when you’ve been more than five minutes on the stage, you’ll know that the way to success lies through the manager’s bedroom. Don’t look at me like that. Down your nose. I’m not a success, I’m in the chorus running straight on thirty-five shillings a week, and there are more of us keep straight than don’t.” Mary was not conscious that she had looked, fastidiously or otherwise, at her companion. She had a feeling of vertigo; she was thinking of herself, not of the other girl, and of this shameful threat before which she seemed to stand naked in her bones. “We don’t look after other people’s morals,” Dolly Chandler assured her, “but you may care to know Darley’s married.” “You think he meant--this?” Dolly shrugged her shoulders. “He’s a man.” “And he meant you to tell me what you are telling me?” “You’re pretty green, you know. I expect he thought I’d put you wise. Though I tell you again it’s not like what I’ve seen of Darley to do the sultan stunt.” And in ordinary clothes she had turned cartwheels before this man! Mary Ellen blushed scarlet consternation. Mr. Chown’s thought, “Darley will teach you to feel,” was taking rapid substance, but she must drive it from her, she must go to the theater and sit through two performances and memorize, memorize.